


Carefree Folly

by diamondunderpressure



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Filk, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, M/M, Opium, Pre-Canon, Sherlock takes morphine Basil takes opium idk, Size Difference, fucked in front of an audience, sex while slightly high but that's not the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondunderpressure/pseuds/diamondunderpressure
Summary: In Which Basil of Baker Street Gets Himself Into Trouble He Can't Get Out of, Has a First Meeting with an Arch-Foe, and Learns No Lessons.
Relationships: Basil of Baker Street/Padraic Ratigan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Carefree Folly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neosaiyanangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neosaiyanangel/gifts).



> Appreciation to mysteryfail and cookiepirate for the betas!
> 
> Greatest of nods to zedstream, as ever, for bringing out my most :D: qualities.

Though every mouse with working whiskers could sense a rat at work in the shifting shadows of London’s criminal underground, the police hadn’t yet found their way through the maze of back alleyways. Hidden in a warren of backstreets was a smoking lounge-- appointed with well-worn but once well-made furniture (the craftsman might well have a talent for counterfeiting a particular designer in the French style), but otherwise barely distinguishable from the others like it in this salaciously seedy slum.

Basil, though. Well, Basil was still terribly bored-- the powerful engine of his mind required specific lubricant lest it shake itself apart running too-hot too-hard too-ravenously consuming each lump of evidence that might hint at something interesting. So he had certainly found his way to the shabby lounge. He breathed deeply the floral perfume of opium smoke, the salty musk of the animals partaking of its benumbing grace and let out a pleased sigh. In such a state, the true depths of ennui yawned before him, for there were no cases or indeed villains left to test his mind!

He waved to the proprietress, who rolled her eyes and gestured him toward his usual couch, thankfully free for use. And it appeared she’d done her twice-monthly cleaning just the night before, as the place looked just a tad less drab than usual. He complimented her taste, tucking the money he owed in her front pocket with a friendly pat, unbuttoned his worn waistcoat, and draped himself onto his couch. The lovely proprietress set a tray down beside him. She had no need to instruct him at this point, as he knew how to prepare it himself. 

As his hands busied in the familiar motions, Basil let his mind spin out into the thousand permutations of crime in the city. Detective Inspector Straude had, for instance, had complained of dozens of new crimes, as though some pebble in the Thames had precipitated a wave of them. Petty theft, garrotting, art forgery, financial schemes, kidnapping, and even counterfeit money! It was enough to make any law-abiding mouse cry. Basil brought the pipe to his lips and took a deep breath, counting a silent few seconds before releasing the pale curling cloud.

He lay there in a pleasant haze, thoughts ticking slower, leaving his reeling anxiety with nothing to anchor it. Relaxation rolled in an oily wave through his body, leaving a gratifying mindlessness in its wake. His head lolled to watch new customers enter, blurs of shape and color that his unconscious mind cataloged obsessively and his drug-dulled conscious mind simply enjoyed. 

Even in his state, Basil could recognize a VIP when one entered. Although no one seemed to take note of the large rodent entering, the man exuded a self-confident air that Basil could taste. He blinked some of the daze from his eyes to watch the man come close. Basil’s usual seat was, of course, right next to the shop’s main thoroughfare. A few more steps and Basil had to force his spine not to stiffen-- aha! That sharp nose! Those broad shoulders! That handsome cravat and newly-tailored coat! He barely needed to look at the man’s face to recognize Padraic Ratigan. This was Detective Inspector Straude’s pebble, and no mistaking it. Basil just had never expected Ratigan to fall right into his lap.

He shifted on the couch and dropped his head back with an inviting smile. “Oh, sir,” he purred, reaching out to pluck at Ratigan’s sleeve as he passed. It was a risk-- Basil had some small public successes under his belt, after all-- but what was investigating without a few risks? And the interested light in Ratigan’s eyes when he turned ignited a fire in Basil’s belly. “A handsome gentleman like you’s got to know how a boy can make some dough.” He trailed off and trailed his fingers over Ratigan’s cuffs. “Fill my pipe, won’t you?” He held the opium pipe up for Ratigan’s inspection.

Ratigan waved off his entourage and paused, leaning against the back of the couch, one solid arm companionable around Basil’s shoulders. “Sure,” he said magnanimously and waved at the proprietress. She nodded, expression unchanging and brought a clean pipe bowl and opium. Ratigan proved to be as comfortable with the apparatus as Basil himself, easily filling the bowl and fitting it to Basil’s pipe. 

Ratigan took the first breath of opium vapor but before he could let it out, Basil lay a hand on his arm and leaned up. He slotted their mouths together for a slow, smokey kiss. When they parted, Basil gave Ratigan a self-satisfied smile and slithered back down onto the couch to press his lips to the pipe himself. Ratigan leaned over and used a nail to unfasten the top button on Basil’s shirt. The detective arched a little to show off the line of his throat and winked.

Standing up again, the criminal mastermind brushed his hair back and straightened his clothes. “I hope you find it to your taste, I had Madam Price bring you the best. I’ll be back soon, so be good and _do_ enjoy the rest of your stay.” Beckoning to his henchmen, Ratigan resumed his way across the room. They disappeared through an unguarded wooden door behind a yellowing lace curtain. 

With a quick look around to make sure that he wasn’t being watched, Basil set his pipe aside and dashed across the room. 

The door swung closed behind him with a quiet thud, but he’d given the fiendish crew enough lead time that they shouldn’t have heard him follow. Basil shook his head rapidly, trying to clear it of the deathly silence of the mind opium brought on. “Well now, well now. Let’s see what kind of dirty business I can catch them at,” he muttered, feeling the first stirrings of adrenaline. Basil stumbled down the stairs, forcing his numb legs into action and using the wall for support against a moment of dizziness. Perhaps he was moving a bit too fast, but-- no!

The stairway took a sharp turn into a foyer, the heavy door propped open for the moment. Basil breathed a prayer of relief and leaned against the wall just before the doorway.

There were voices not too far ahead, Ratigan’s smooth tones, and the squeaking yelps of his minions following his orders. Basil grinned, knocking his head lightly back against the doorway in triumph. Now, all he had to do was get close enough to them to get a decent piece of evidence and he’d be right as rain!

He leaned forward, staring down into the long room. Ratigan and his gang were leaned over some sort of contraption that clinked and clanked. The large man lifted a slip of paper and Basil swallowed a laugh-- of course! The counterfeiting ring must be using these poor souls to launder their money, slipping forged bills in amongst the real cash changing hands in a depraved den like this. 

But then Ratigan pressed a button and machine clanked to life once more, spitting out something from the other side, something long and flat, yes, but much larger. When Ratigan held it up, Basil couldn’t help but gasp. It was a perfect replica of the Queen’s Golden Jubilee Portrait, gilded and sparkling just like the real one. A dual forgery-counterfeiting scheme?! The absolute madman! He clamped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. He started to back up the stairs, but his drug-numb body chose the most unfortunate moment to give out. His tail thumped painfully on the steps and one of the mice came dashing out to grab him. 

“Let me go,” Basil demanded as more of Ratigan's henchmen poured out of the counterfeiting room to grab him. Instead Ratigan motioned and he was dragged kicking into the foyer. The door’s lock clicked shut with a concerning finality.

“My dear dear Basil,” Ratigan purred, trailing his fingers over Basil’s muzzle, “what a surprise to find you down here when I thought I’d left you to your stupor in the den. I did promise to come back if you were good.” He crowded into Basil’s space and, not for the first time that day, Basil realized just how much bigger Ratigan really was.

“You knew who I was from the start,” Basil said, and Ratigan grinned in affirmation, all sharp teeth.

Basil pressed his lips together, wriggling against the hold of Ratigan’s unnecessarily rough underlings. One of them-- the lizard, he thought absently, jerked him back and dug claws into his shoulder. The already-worn collarless shirt he wore tore suddenly, the top buttons popping off and ricocheting off the nearest counterfeit machine. Basil tumbled forward, cheek against Ratigan’s chest and then was dragged back upright. He hissed, a wave of dizziness sending his head swirling. “Regardless. Who’d want to wait for a depraved criminal like you? The only place I’d wait for a rat like you is next to the jail cell so I can lock it and throw away the key!” 

In unison the minions holding Basil froze, the ones who had been watching Basil turning slowly to face their boss. Ratigan too had gone very still, his lips pulled back in a shallow smile that did nothing to hide the malevolence in his eyes. “What did you call me?” he asked, faux-patience dripping from every word.

Internally, Basil cursed himself for a fool. A man like this? With his put-on airs and tailored suit? He _would_ hate to be reminded of the sewers from which he was likely spawned. But there was no taking the words back now. “I said what I meant, Ratigan,” Basil said, rolling the ‘r’ in Ratigan’s name viciously. He leaned up as far as the underlings' hold on him would allow and smirked. 

He didn’t have time, or even enough control of his own body, to tense when the strike came. The blow was hard enough to send him crashing away from the men holding him and into the forgery side of the nearby machine. He paused for a moment to stare blankly at the gracious smile of the Queen laying her benediction on him. Ratigan’s claws tangled in the torn front of Basil’s shirt and dragged him upright. Basil tasted blood and blinked blearily into Ratigan’s snarling face. The larger man raised his hand, the sharp tip of his claws glinting in the dim light. Basil braced himself for the blow-- but it didn’t come.

Ratigan dropped his hand slowly, a thoughtful expression passing over his face and smoothing out the anger. He still had one hand tangled in Basil’s shirt, the sharp edge of his thumbnail pressing the soft fur of Basil’s chest. “No, no. I don’t have to kill you, detective. I don’t have to do anything to a wretched little addict like you.” Instead of the strike Basil had been expecting, Ratigan drew his fingers down Basil’s muzzle. “All I have to do is give you what you were begging for earlier. Show you for what you are-- a perverse and revolting specimen of an opium eater.” He pinched Basil’s chin, forcing the mouse to look up at the sick light in his eyes.

He dropped Basil and crowded him back against the machine. With a quick motion, Ratigan had torn Basil’s shirt off entirely, leaving the mouse half-bare and wide-eyed. Basil tried to swallow his shock, moderate his racing heart, adrenaline overwhelming his opium haze. He struggled, reaching for the counterfeiting plates and swinging one at Ratigan, who shoved him back against the machine with a grunt. The dull pain went shooting up Basil’s back and he lost his grip on the plate, ending up clutching at Ratigan’s bicep instead.

The criminal mastermind was smirking and Basil’s stomach dropped. “Let go of me, you depraved maniac,” he said.

Ratigan’s laugh wasn’t a surprise, but the low snickering of his minions was. Basil didn’t know why that was so. He should have expected a grandiose megalomaniac to have underlings who delighted in egging him on. “I don’t think so,” Ratigan said, and his claws scraped down Basil’s side hard enough to ruffle the fur and make Basil grimace. “I think I’m going to give you what you want.” 

Basil tried futilely to shove at Ratigan’s hands. He’d certainly insinuated those things, to his rapidly sobering mind’s shame, but that had been when he was certain he could escape! When he’d thought he could get a confession easily. When… Basil cursed himself for a fool… when he had thought Professor Ratigan wasn’t smart enough to recognize his enemy dressed so rakishly downmarket.

“You know very well I do not--!” Basil’s words were interrupted by Ratigan spinning him around and shoving his torso down without warning. The movement knocked the wind from Basil’s lungs. 

Ratigan made a pleased sound, one surprisingly small hand pressing between the mouse’s shoulder blades and holding firm. It didn’t move a fraction even when Basil managed to get his arms under him and try to push himself back. “I know no such thing, my dear Basil,” Ratigan said. He snapped with his free hand and waved to his minions. “Oh Fidget,” he called, “do help me take care of the rest of our guest’s things.” 

The sounds which followed the demand were the uneven thump of a peg-leg and a twitchy little giggle. “Sure, boss! Whatever you say! Right away!” said Fidget. 

Basil twitched under the unyielding grip, turning his head sideways to get a better look. Fidget turned out to be a bat-- a noctule, if Basil didn’t miss his guess, usually native over the Thames down Teddington Lock-- with, yes, a peg-leg and an eager-to-please smile. 

“Where do you want me to put them?” Fidget asked, picking up the shreds of Basil’s shirt and making to clean up.

Ratigan growled in irritation. “His _trousers_ , Fidget! Take off his trousers.”

“No!” Basil struggled, kicking out against Ratigan and Fidget both until Ratigan snarled and shoved him down hard enough to rock the machine, leaving a broad smear of ink on Mousetoria’s painted smile. “Let go!”

“Hold him,” Ratigan snapped and suddenly there were more hands on Basil, holding him still, slapping his chest and sides when he tried to fight. “Look what you made me do,” Ratigan chastised, grabbing Basil by the back of his head to show him the splotch. Basil could barely pay attention when Fidget’s hands were fumbling with his trousers, leaving scrapes down his thighs in a frantic hurry.

Basil rarely found himself in a situation he couldn’t think his way out of-- in fact he was never caught off-guard like this, and there was panic in the pit of his stomach. “Stop, Ratigan, you can’t!” He kicked out again, and someone smacked his ass, startling a yelp that was more surprise than pain. It left a warm sting. Basil shouldn’t have been surprised when it happened again. Then Ratigan stepped back, leaving his underlings to hold Basil down, so several, none of whom Basil could get a good look at, swatted his ass and thighs. Hot aches burned into his skin when one of them hit the same place several times. Panic and endorphins were a heady combination, merging with the last remnants of his afternoon’s diversion in the opium den to send his head reeling. Even like this he couldn’t miss the sound of cloth rustling behind him as Ratigan stripped.

“Of course I can,” Ratigan breathed. He draped his broad body over Basil’s, holding the mouse in place with his sheer bulk. The minions let go, leaving Ratigan the only one holding Basil down. But Ratigan’s hands were already closed like manacles around Basil’s hands, and the heft of Ratigan’s naked balls weighed against his thighs, so much bigger than any he’d ever encountered and intimidating. “I can do whatever I wish, and you won’t ever be able to stop me.” He ground against Basil, and the mouse ground his teeth together to keep from making a sound.

When Ratigan bit down on his scruff and thrust particularly hard, Basil couldn’t help the whine that dropped from his lips. His head was buzzing and it was only mostly-unpleasant. It had been quite some time since he had partaken of quality company-- although this was hardly what he’d call “quality”. He tried to swallow it back, shuddering and writhing beneath Ratigan, but it didn’t do anything besides rub his tail against Ratigan’s stomach. The machine rocked beneath him again, and the criminal snarled, annoyance obvious even in Basil’s dazed state.

“Come now, Basil, you must understand the artistry in these machines. If you insist on wrecking my beautiful forgeries, I’ll have to find a less pleasant way to do this.” 

Basil didn’t care to protest that he wasn’t the one who was causing the ink smudges-- he wasn’t strong enough to move the equipment by himself. Not when Ratigan let go of one hand in order to painfully jerk Basil’s tail straight up and Ratigan thrust himself against Basil’s opening once, twice. Then his dick was inside Basil with a muted groan, forcing the mouse open. At first it hurt terribly, a burning violation that matched nothing Basil had ever experienced before. He rode the movement as Ratigan picked up speed. Slowly, Basil’s body adjusted to the intrusion, leaving him feeling split and vulnerable but, thanks to the opium, not in pain. The rat’s pendulous balls slapped more hot aches into Basil’s ass and thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed himself against the equipment’s plate to hide the humiliated heat in his face. 

But Ratigan wasn’t about to let Basil get away with that. He leaned down and swept Basil’s knees under the crook of his arms, knocking him off his feet. When Ratigan stood straight, Basil realized the point of picking him up like this, taking all of Basil’s weight on his arm and chest. Ratigan’s naked body burned behind him, startlingly soft fur rubbing against Basil’s back, and those strong arms-- Basil could almost enjoy being held so easily, if Ratigan wasn’t holding his legs spread for the eager gaze of his minions. Basil turned his head away, but all that did was press his hot cheek into Ratigan’s hotter chest. 

Ratigan took a moment to adjust, nipping none-too-nicely at Basil’s ear. Basil sucked in a breath, reaching behind to try and shove himself away but Ratigan’s grip was like iron. Too soon Ratigan began to move, rolling his hips up in a slow, smooth motion that Basil wasn’t expecting. It knocked him off-balance and he leaned back against Ratigan again, reaching back to hold onto Ratigan’s shoulders. The unthinking movement left him arched and exposed for Ratigan’s little minions, who cackled to each other.”

“Peg him, boss!” Fidget cheered.

“Make him squeak,” called a skink.

A trio of mice who looked mostly-inebriated started up a round of some drinking song, ad-libbing new verses. “Basil’s meddling, and he’s nosy, thinks he’s too smart for old Ratigan’s tricks,” one sang, throwing his arm around a friend, “but Basil’s drugged up, and sloppy-- now Basil’s split open on Ratigan’s prick!”

His companion laughed, and lead them to start up a new chorus: 

_“Oh Ratigan, Oh Ratigan, He’s the baddest, dick’s the fattest!  
Oh Ratigan, Oh Ratigan,  
Keeps a cat and feeds her cops all the time_

_Great Detective? What a joke!  
Shoot your seed on his coat, boys and sing with your throat  
Oh Ratigan! Oh Ratigan,  
The World’s Greatest Criminal Mind~!”_

“Was there ever a sorrier tail than this one?” asked Ratigan, giving Basil’s inner thigh a quick slap.

Basil tried to ignore the way Ratigan’s rhythm altered to match the music. It wasn’t difficult, if he just breathed through it. His body was still relaxed from an afternoon of opium use, adrenaline and endorphins making his mind softer and malleable. If he let himself stop thinking about the henchmen watching him, stop thinking about the rat behind him as Ratigan, the deviant and perverse criminal mastermind… Something wet hit his stomach. Basil opened his eyes, gasping, to see several of the mice who had been singing Ratigan’s praises with their pricks out. One was slumped on the ground, his softening cock in his hands, and Basil swallowed the cold realization that he was being used for their entertainment now. Ratigan dropped him a little, letting gravity pull Basil down deeper on Ratigan’s dick, and it brushed something that sent a jolt of pleasure down Basil’s limbs.

There was no hope that Ratigan wouldn’t notice. He felt the minute trembling of Basil’s body and thrust up, directly at the sensitive bundle of nerves he’d found. Basil arched beautifully. He cried out, eyes slamming shut as the wave of pleasure washed over him. His arms, still up and wrapped around Ratigan’s neck shook. “No,” he said, protesting his body’s betrayal more than Ratigan’s cruel touch or his henchmens’ sniggers and groans. “You foul..." Another thrust found his prostate, and he shook his head, rubbing his cheek against Ratigan’s chest.

The slick sounds of creatures touching themselves to his humiliation surrounded him. Basil’s head whirled and he clung desperately to Ratigan even as the man fucked him into insensibility. There was too much stimulation when he’d been sensitized to none. Too many sounds, voices, laughter, pain, pleasure, the sticky wetness of cum hitting his thighs, chest, cheek. It dripped slowly down his fur and stung distantly against scratches he’d forgotten about. He sobbed softly and clenched around Ratigan’s cock as another thrust sent sparkles dancing behind his eyes.

Ratigan’s breath ruffled his ears. “I thought you were clever but you look so much better on my dick. So much for the great mouse detective.” 

Basil couldn’t even come up with a coherent response, panting and shivering in Ratigan’s hold. 

“Hey boss, lookit this,” Fidget giggled. 

Basil opened his eyes to look down into the wide yellow eyes and sharp smile much too close to him. Clawed hands grasped his dick-- his hard, sensitive dick, oh god-- and stroked. Basil’s head dropped back and he keened. 

“Lovely,” Ratigan said and his voice was tight with the very last remnants of control. “Don’t worry, my dear Basil, Fidget will take perfect care of you.” 

Ratigan’s rough, arrhythmic thrusts behind and the dry, calloused hands of the bat in front conspired to strip Basil of the last of his wits. He writhed, unsure of whether he was trying to get away or get more, but he couldn’t escape so all he could do was let the pair control his body whatever way they wanted.

Time lost meaning for Basil as Ratigan’s hips stuttered and slammed in, until finally it was just too much and he wailed his climax. As he clenched, Ratigan thrust twice more, hard enough to be painful against his tail, and came, hot and dirty inside him. The rat’s claws dug into his inner thighs, although Basil’s exhausted mind couldn’t even bother to parse whether the wetness there was cum or blood.

Ratigan paused for a moment, shoulders hunched around Basil almost possessively as he caught his breath. And then the moment was gone and Ratigan let Basil go to drop gracelessly to the abrasive floor. Basil shivered, curling in on himself. His fur felt matted and sticky, and he ached dreadfully in the worst places. 

“Awww,” Ratigan said, as he pulled his trousers on and knelt in front of Basil, once again caressing his muzzle with gentle fingertips. “Don’t worry. You can go upstairs and get something for the pain. Here, I’ll even help you pay for it.” Something was pressed into Basil’s hand.

With one more word from Ratigan, some of his minions scooped Basil up and dragged him out onto the stairs. A round mouse followed behind, humming a snatch of the drinking song, and dropped Basil’s trousers onto his head before wandering back into the counterfeiting room and closing the door with a sharp click.

Basil lay there, head spinning for a few minutes. He took a few centering breaths, pulled his trousers from his head and re-dressed as best he could. 

Then he bent down to pick up the fresh counterfeit note Ratigan obviously expected him to spend and slipped it into his pocket. It had a smear of glittering paint from where, in the chaos, someone had knocked the forgery equipment.

Basil grinned. Well, wouldn’t Detective Inspector Straude be most pleased to get a full chemical analysis of Ratigan’s newest counterfeiting scheme?


End file.
